


Good Look For You

by faithtastic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Architect Clarke Griffin, Bisexual Disaster Clarke Griffin, Crack, Established Relationship, F/F, Lexa has a muddy European accent of unknown origin, Model Lexa, Smut, leather jacket Lexa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 08:30:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18961597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: In which Griffin+Reyes attend the most important client meeting of their careers only for Clarke's professionalism to be compromised by her devious girlfriend.





	Good Look For You

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr until it got eaten by that hellsite when I updated the tags. Sigh.

The lobby of Mount Weather Holdings is a starkly imposing cathedral of white marble, polished steel and glass. Utterly soulless, perfectly corporate. Enough to send a small tingle of unease down Clarke’s spine as she walks towards the reception desk with a confident stride, Raven falling into step beside her.

“Hi, good afternoon. Clarke Griffin and Raven Reyes. We have a two pm appointment with the board.”

The receptionist’s lips turn up minutely as she spares them a cursory up-down glance and Clarke resists the urge to touch her hair or adjust the tuck of her blouse, instead lifting her chin to hold the woman’s stare and meeting the thin smile with a fuller one of her own.

The woman indicates towards the u-shaped arrangement of modular couches in the large central atrium. “Someone will be along to escort you to the conference room shortly.”

Hitching the straps of the Tom Ford tote bag higher up her shoulder (free swag—one of the perks of dating a model), Clarke nods her thanks and follows Raven to the waiting area. They sit close together and Clarke doesn’t fail to notice that Raven seems on edge, knee jiggling the storage tube on her lap while her gaze keeps darting towards the bank of elevators. Even in the Lyft across Manhattan to Midtown, she’d been unusually circumspect.

“Rae, relax,” Clarke says in a firm tone, hoping it masks her own last minute jitters. “The designs are solid. We’ve been over it all a million times.”

“Yeah, I know.” Raven sighs. “It’s just—this is a huge fucking deal.” Neither miss the sharp, frosty look the receptionist sends their way. Either the woman possesses the hearing of a bat or she’s an expert lip reader. Raven lowers her voice. “We only get one shot at this.”

Clarke’s well aware of the stakes.

This thirty minute slot with Dante Wallace is the culmination of everything they’ve been working towards and the entire team has been pulling late nights and early starts these past two weeks in a push to get the proposal over the line.

Clarke certainly has the dark circles under her eyes to prove it, albeit hidden by a layer of concealer and foundation so thick even a drag queen might deem it excessive. At this stage the concentration of caffeine in her blood must be nearing lethal levels and she can’t remember the last time she ate something that didn’t arrive in a greasy box or paper bag accompanied by tiny sachets of condiments.

Not that it hasn’t been tough on everyone. Tempers have frayed. Octavia nearly came to blows with Jasper in the break room because he finished the last of the artisanal coffee and replaced it with instant. But, by and large, they’ve all knuckled down with minimal grumbling so Clarke owes her people enormous gratitude and several rounds of drinks, not to mention a few vacation days and possibly a raise, if—no, _when_ —they win this project for Griffin+Reyes. 

Feeling a renewed sense of determination, Clarke places a hand briefly on Raven’s knee to stop it from bouncing.

“Hey.” She lifts her eyebrows and holds Raven’s gaze. “We’re going to strut in there like the goddamn young mavericks we are, like that Metropolis profile said, and we’re going to knock it out the park, okay? We’ve got this.”

The strain around Raven’s eyes eases fractionally. She gives a subtle nod. After a second she cracks a small smile. “Hell yeah, we are, Griffin.”

Satisfied that her little motivational speech hit the mark, Clarke looks away, only for a stack of magazines on the low glass-topped table in front of them to catch her eye. She grabs two indiscriminately from the top of the pile.

“Here,” she tosses one at Raven with a smirk, “Cosmo sex quiz. This’ll take your mind off it.”

“‘Are you good in bed?’” Raven reads off the front cover, her face contorting into a grimace. She holds the magazine between her thumb and forefinger, as if it’s something toxic that might contaminate her with its idiocy, causing her IQ to drop by exposure alone. “If you need a stupid quiz to determine your sexual prowess? Chances are you probably suck. And not in an enjoyable way.”  

Chuckling, Clarke looks down at the latest issue of Vogue on her own lap. Not her usual reading material either but it’ll do in a pinch when her head is swimming with the lines she’s been rehearsing for the past 48 hours. Normally she doesn’t like to be so over-prepared, relying on a more fluid, natural style and adjusting accordingly as she reads the mood of the room. Today she can’t afford to take any chances. There’s too much riding on the outcome to wing it.

Right now she just needs to clear her mind, at least for a few minutes, and flipping through page after page of supernaturally beautiful women with gaunt cheeks and vacant stares hawking couture, bags and shoes is as good a distraction as any.

So it’s safe to say she isn’t prepared for _this_.

The close up of Lexa’s exquisite face staring out from the glossy page, the moody black and white shot using light and shadow to masterful effect to highlight sculpted cheekbones, the luminous glow of those eyes, and a jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds.

It gives Clarke palpitations that she’s sure have little to do with lack of sleep and being highly caffeinated. 

Is it possible to be sexually attracted to the hinge of someone’s jaw? Because, in this moment, Clarke totally is. She’s contemplating licking the page.

With some effort she forces herself to turn to the next page.

As soon as she does, she sucks in a quiet, astonished breath.

For a full minute she can’t think. Can only stare as her brain short circuits, synapses misfiring, while heat surges in her lower belly.

There’s Lexa, slouching against a graffiti-strewn backdrop, open leather jacket slipping off one shoulder, the ripped-up black tank top beneath hugging her torso, wearing leather pants so tight they look like they’ve been painted on. Her eyes are mesmerising, the whites gleaming bright against dark shadow and heavy liner.

The toss of her hair, the smouldering half-lidded gaze, the upward tilt of her chin and slightly parted lips, the bared expanse of her throat, all adding up to exude the kind of coolly seductive arrogance that leaves Clarke pressing her thighs together.

Inopportune moment as it is, she can’t help but remember the last time she’d had Lexa in her bed. The similar expression Lexa had worn then. Eyes black and head tipped back, watching, breathing hard. Clarke on her hands and knees while she rode three fingers and licked a wet stripe up the corded tendon of that graceful neck. Being fucked so good and hard and deep that she felt the ache for days afterwards whenever she sat down.

And, fuck, this is inconvenient.

She has a damn pitch to deliver and she categorically cannot allow her performance to be compromised by this… this casual assault on her person by her life-ruiner of a girlfriend.

How could Lexa keep this from her? It’s fucking rude. Hot. Jesus Christ, it’s hot. But, mostly, rude.

She wants to step inside that photograph. She wants Lexa to pin her against that wall and do unspeakably dirty things to her.

It takes longer than it should for her to register that the irritating noise at the edge of her awareness is Raven clicking her fingers next to her ear.

“—rke, you alright? You’re sweating.”

Clarke drags her eyes upwards to meet Raven’s stare. Her brows are furrowed, mouth downturned, her face a picture of concern.

Words. Words would be good. But somehow Clarke can’t seem to make her mouth work.

“You’re not going to pass out on me, are you? Do you need some air? Water?”

Raven lifts her palm as if to place it on Clarke’s forehead and Clarke bats the hand away, heat flaring in her cheeks.

She clears her throat but her voice still sounds suspiciously husky when she says, “I’m fine.”

It’s a purely subconscious reflex. For Clarke’s gaze to flick back down to the page, just for a second. But Raven, the ever observant asshole, doesn’t miss it.

There’s a pregnant pause then:

“Holy shit. Is that—?”

Raven makes a grab for the magazine to get a closer look but Clarke’s reflexes are faster and she holds it away from her body, just beyond Raven’s reach.

“Raven.” It’s a low warning.

The sheer glee that takes over Raven’s expression makes Clarke’s stomach drop like a stone.

“Oh, _that’s_ why you’re so red in the face. You look like you’re about ready to shove that magazine up your vagina.”

A harsh glare and another low hiss of “ _Raven_.” Because Clarke’s far too conscious of the miasma of disapproval wafting from the reception desk. “Really not the time or place.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one who’s drooling here so you can save the lecture.”

“I’m not—” Clarke snaps then thinks better of arguing the point. She presses her lips together and shakes her head minutely. “I just… I need a minute, okay?”

More like fifteen, preferably in complete privacy and a soundproofed room.

She shuts her eyes for a second and all she sees behind the lids is a kaleidoscope of images: Lexa’s eyes and her mouth, the definition of collarbones and the curve of her shoulder, and—

When she opens her eyes again it’s to find Raven staring at her, incredulous and vaguely pissed off. Which only makes Clarke flush harder. Her body’s reaction to a fucking photograph is verging on the ridiculous.

“Seriously. Pull it together,” Raven glowers. “This is the biggest pitch of our careers and you’re sitting here barely able to function because of your damn thirst. If you screw this up—”

“I won’t.”

The other woman looks far from convinced. 

Clarke sighs, repeats herself with more certainty. “Raven, I won’t.”

She places the magazine on the table with carefully controlled movements. As though she’s handling a live grenade. God knows it’s going to cause further devastation in her underwear if she looks at those photos of Lexa for a moment longer.

Reaching into the bag at her feet, she plucks her phone out. Within a few taps she’s got the last iMessage conversation with Lexa open. She can feel the weight of Raven’s stare boring into her cheek but it’s imperative she shoot off a quick message, otherwise it’s going to plague her. Because Raven’s right. She needs to be focused. Professional. Bring her A-game. She can’t do that if she’s thinking about Lexa looking like _that_.

 _I hate you_ , she types.

The response arrives swiftly. Presumably Lexa’s enjoying some downtime, wherever she is.

_L: Pardon?_

_You know_.

_L: I really don’t. Could you elaborate?_

_Vogue_.

There’s a long pause and Clarke watches the animated dots stop and start for a few interminable seconds that seem to drag on forever.

 _L: Oh_.

It’s so concise it almost makes Clarke snort.

_Yeah. Oh._

“Incoming.”

It’s sounded out between gritted teeth and she glances up to see a woman approaching, the click of her stiletto heels upon the marble floor echoing around the lobby. Dr Tsing, the Chief Operating Officer.

It gives Clarke a little jolt, adrenaline spiking through her.

This is it.

All fat thumbs, Clarke sends a final message: _Meeting. Call you later._

She doesn't have time to read Lexa’s reply but she hears the faint buzz of the phone as she drops it back into her bag, just before she rises quickly from the couch to shake Dr Tsing’s hand, a bright smile plastered on her face.

  
  


***

  
  


From the front of the room Clarke surveys the inscrutable faces of the board members and she feels the little flutter in her stomach kick up a notch. No matter how many client presentations she’s done over the years, she still experiences those butterflies. But they’re the good kind of nerves. The kind that energise, push her to give her best.

In her head she repeats her usual mantra before she launches into her spiel: _Hit the key points, keep your cool, and in the immortal words of RuPaul, good luck and don’t fuck it up._

She takes a steadying breath and turns a thousand-watt smile on Dante Wallace.

"When people think about museums they think about paintings, sculptures, antique vases, objects inside glass cabinets or offset behind velvet ropes. But when I think about museums, I think about the stories they contain."

She sees him steeple his fingers, the way he leans a little further forward in his chair, interest written in the subtle crinkle around his eyes.

“WIMA isn't a space for sculpture or portraits or objects or _things_. It's a space for storytelling. Stories of great art. Those who created it, lived it, and those who'll experience these transformative works for the first, second, hundredth time, forming their own complex, emotive associations."

Her gaze cuts towards Raven and the look Raven sends her way bolsters Clarke. It’s the silent equivalent of two firm thumbs up, a _get it, Griffin_ , and it loosens some of the tension in her spine.

Clarke looks at each person around the conference table in turn, meets their eyes briefly, only long enough to engage. She falters just the slightest when she notices Wallace’s son, Cage—VP of Marketing, if she remembers correctly from the introductions—is faintly leering, his eyes glued to her chest. But she doesn’t dwell on it, lets the irritation roll off of her as she wields the wireless remote presenter with a flourish and clicks the button to bring up the next slide.

Behind her, on the massive plasma screen, a 3D render fades into view, a stunning representation of the building in its surrounding environment. Between them, Monty and Jasper spent hours perfecting the visualisations, producing countless iterations, and Clarke feels pride swell in her chest.

“Presenting the Wallace Institute of Modern Art, a jewel in the beating heart of New York City.”

  
  


***

  
  


One CG flyby that garners appreciative murmurs later, Clarke’s confidence is soaring. She manages to field the barrage of questions from Tsing, Emerson, and even Wallace himself without losing her cool. Raven interjects whenever it merits a more technical perspective.

It’s all going smoothly.

That is, until she feels a vibration beside her foot, the unmistakable buzz of her phone within the depths of her bag. She ignores it, doesn’t let it put her off her stride as she explains how the materials used in the construction and the state-of-the-art lighting will contribute to reducing the building’s overall carbon footprint and, as a direct consequence, the running costs.

But it keeps happening.

Numerous texts in quick succession and by the eighth one, she loses the thread of what she was saying because she’s so damn distracted.

“Uh, and so properly executed daylighting strategies can—they can—”

When she flounders for another half-second, face growing hot, Raven clears her throat and intervenes. “Reduce HVAC peak loads, through a combination of high-performance curtainwall systems, optimising mechanical equipment capacity, and installing windows with solar heat gain coefficient properties and condensation resistance.” She spreads her hands. “In fact, solar control window films can reduce energy expenditures by up to 30 percent alone, which translates to millions of dollars in savings over the lifetime of a building.”

Tsing and Emerson share a nod, impressed, and Clarke sends a grateful look across the table to her partner. What Clarke receives in return is a raised eyebrow, the subtle widening of dark eyes warning her to rein in whatever the fuck is going on with her right now—the visual equivalent of a swift kick to the shin.

And she tries. But for the rest of the meeting she’s fidgety, unable to concentrate on anything except the occasional vibration of another incoming message. She itches to check. Knows without having to look that her phone is blowing up with all kinds of rude texts and there’s nothing she can do about it. She can’t even reach into her bag to power the fucking thing off.

While Raven talks about ICC regulations for continuous insulation, Clarke’s mind flashes back to that magazine. 

She daydreams about it.

Has to keep crossing and recrossing her legs even as Raven extols the environmental and economic benefits of providing thermal, air, water and vapour control layers within one sophisticated system.

And her phone just keeps buzz, buzz, buzzing.

God _dammit_ , Lexa.

  
  


***

  
  


There’s a round of vigorous hand-shaking before they depart and Clarke has to force herself not to visibly shudder when Cage Wallace slides his finger across her palm, a smirk on his lips.

“I’d love to discuss the sustainability angle with you further,” he says, eyes darting down to her cleavage. “Perhaps over dinner this week?”

And, really? _Really_? This creep has the gall to hit on her in front of his own father and the entire board?

Clarke withdraws her hand and resists the urge to wipe it off against her skirt. “I’m sorry, my schedule is packed,” she replies, her tone devoid of any apology. “If you contact my office, my PA Octavia will be happy to put something in the diary during business hours.”

His eyes narrow but his oily smile spreads and, ugh, it makes Clarke want to take a long, hot shower to scour away the discomfort.

  
  


***

  
  


Raven waits until they’re on the sidewalk before she rounds on Clarke.

“What the actual fuck, Griffin? I’ve never seen you fumble like that before.”

Clarke sighs and grimaces and shakes her head in quick succession, ashamed at her own lack of composure.

“Look, I’ll put in a call to Tsing in the morning to smooth over any cracks.”

“Maybe if you spent less time thinking about smoothing over Gaybelline’s crack, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

An eye roll. “That doesn’t even make sense, Rae.”

She finally pulls out her phone with the intention of calling a Lyft, only to find it isn’t only texts waiting for her but photos too. From the thumbnail preview images it appears they’re outtakes from the Vogue shoot featuring Lexa in varying states of undress.

The quiet gasp she lets out isn’t quiet enough.

Raven peers over and, as soon as she sees what’s on the screen, she rolls her eyes so hard they’re in danger of falling out their sockets. “Okay, no. You’re _useless_ like this. Go home. Spend some quality time with your vibrator and come back tomorrow when you can focus.”

For the sake of saving some face, Clarke thinks about disputing the instruction but Raven folds her arms and stares, lips pursed. Thoroughly unimpressed.

Clarke wilts.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says with a sheepish glance towards her feet.

“Mhm.”

  
  


***

  
  


During the ride to her apartment Clarke finally responds to Lexa’s deluge of messages with a simple: _I repeat, I hate you_.

Within seconds she receives a reply.

 _L: You don’t_.

 _Debatable_.

Then: _You better make this up to me._

_L: Oh, I will._

It’s so easy to picture Lexa’s self-satisfied smirk. How it must’ve grown bigger and bigger as she devilishly bombarded Clarke with the outtakes.

And Clarke wants nothing more than to kiss it off Lexa’s face, but she can’t. Because Lexa’s still across the country, stuck in LA for another two days shooting a commercial for a perfume she despises.

(“I don’t even know why Indra thought a fragrance called Narcissist would be a good fit for me,” Lexa pouted over FaceTime last night, entirely without irony, struggling with the pronunciation of the word as she always does.

Clarke had murmured her agreement, but really she was just in thrall to Lexa’s voice, that soft-spoken lilting accent sending a ripple down her spine. Lexa could’ve said Gehry and Foster are a pair of talentless hacks and Clarke would’ve been like, “Yes, uh-huh, tell me more,” with her chin propped in her hands.)

Another string of texts comes through.

 _L: They let me keep the jacket from that shoot._  
_L: Maybe I’ll model it for you when I get back._  
_L: What do you think?_

Clarke pulls in a sharp breath through her nostrils, suddenly assaulted with the kind of delicious thoughts that make her far too impatient to endure being stuck in traffic right now.

 _I think you’re a fucking tease_ , she fires back.

_How am I supposed to function with that scenario playing out in my head?_

She waits, shifting in the backseat. Minutes pass. The car trundles forward at a snail’s pace.

_Okay._

_I see how it is._

_NOW you go radio silent._

Lexa’s clearly toying with her and it just adds to Clarke’s mounting agitation.

Arousal itches under her skin and she can’t stand another moment of being cooped up in this stuffy vehicle. She tells the driver, “You know what? I’ll get out here, thanks.”

The brisk seven block walk to her place does little to cool her down.

Especially when she passes a newsstand and spies that same issue of Vogue. Taunting her. She hesitates only a second before she snatches up a copy, handing over the money and stuffing the magazine into her bag.

She checks her phone twice more.

Not even a read receipt beneath the last text and she quietly fumes as she marches onwards.

By the time she gets home, she’s worked herself into a state. Equally turned on and frustrated. She scarcely looks up from the screen as she kicks off her heels and heads straight for the bedroom, Frank yapping at her ankles. Too busy typing another text to notice that she isn’t alone, until she catches the scent of a familiar perfume, glimpses dainty feet and willowy long legs and—

Oh.

So that explains Frank’s boisterous behaviour.

Because Lexa’s perched nonchalantly on the end of the bed. Sitting there in that _jacket_ and sheer, lacy lingerie that probably costs more than a month’s rent and not a stitch else. A smirk on her face. Hair loose and flowing past her shoulders in beach waves. Eyes gleaming with more than a hint of smug delight at Clarke’s slack-jawed reaction.

In her shock, Clarke forgets to be mad. Mind reeling because Lexa is _here_.

She closes the door on Frank, ignoring his soft whine and the scratch of paws. Drops her bag on the floor and advances towards the bed. Darkened eyes roam shamelessly over her pencil skirt and silk blouse, lingering over her hips and bust before finally flicking up to her face, and she flushes at the blatant hunger in Lexa’s expression.

“I can’t believe how sneaky you are,” Clarke says, an attempt at rebuke, but the raspiness of her voice gives her away.

“You mean mysterious and sexy. _Enigmatica_.”

Now Lexa’s just being rude, using that accent to push her buttons. And succeeding, damn her.

"If I hadn't seen that fucking magazine, would you even have told me about this shoot?"

Lexa gives an elegant shrug. "I do shoots all the time, Clarke.” So blasé, but Clarke sees how Lexa’s throat bobs as she draws nearer. “Do you really want the details of all of them? Because I can have Indra copy you in on all the emails if you insist."

She’s within touching distance now. 

"Don't be a smart ass. All I could think about during the pitch was your goddam lips and neck and how much I wanted to get you out of that leather jacket."

“Then why don’t you?”

Lexa leans back on her elbows and the jacket in question slips a little further off her shoulders, partially baring those perfect tits and a swath of golden skin and sharp clavicles that Clarke wants to get her mouth on right this instant.

It’s an open invitation, one Lexa doesn’t often extend: offering her body up freely, ceding control.

And warmth floods Clarke’s body when the realisation filters through the haze of lust clouding her brain—today, today Lexa’s going to allow Clarke to top her.

The smirk returns, because Lexa _knows_ exactly what she’s doing and the effect it’s having.

Well, two can play at that game.

Reaching behind for the fastening of her skirt, Clarke drags the zip down. She takes her time shimmying out of the tight fabric, letting Lexa appreciate the slow reveal. Although it’s been a few months already, it still feels a little unreal to think that Lexa—someone who _looks_ like Lexa, who’s surrounded on a daily basis by equally stunning and waifish women—could possibly be so thirsty for the sight of Clarke’s comparatively plus-size thighs. But apparently she is and Clarke has learned to stop doubting it.

With some effort, Lexa forces her eyes up. They’re pitch dark now, pupils blown wide.

“So…” She wets her lips. “Are you still angry with me?” 

Clarke plants one knee on the mattress beside Lexa’s hip. “Furious.”

An audible sound catches in Lexa’s throat as Clarke straddles her lap. Again, when Clarke places a palm flat against Lexa’s sternum to urge her to lie back.

“That’s regrettable,” Lexa murmurs, watching from beneath heavy lids, slim fingers reaching for Clarke’s hips. Her gaze is fixed intently on Clarke’s mouth and, God, just the way Lexa looks at her makes Clarke _ache_. “Considering I flew home early to surprise you.”

Clarke tries not to focus too much on the wild flutter behind her ribs at those words.

Maybe Lexa only meant “home” as in NYC but there’s something about the glow in her eyes—beyond the obvious glaze of desire—that tells Clarke otherwise.

“I guess it is kind of romantic,” she concedes. 

A pout. “Only kind of?”

But the petted bottom lip tucks back in as soon as Clarke leans over Lexa, arms braced on either side of her shoulders. The hands on Clarke’s hips move, sliding down and around to cup her ass.

Clarke nods, distracted, her own gaze stuck on the plump curve of Lexa’s lower lip, zeroing in on the crease in the middle that she’s dying to scrape her teeth over. “In a stupidly overblown, dramatic way, sure.” 

She drops her hips, rocking into Lexa’s, and the groan it earns her thrills through Clarke, settling molten between her thighs.

“Was there a compliment in there somewhere? I can’t tell,” Lexa says, and the low husk to her voice only adds to its allure.

They inch closer, Clarke leaning down and Lexa craning her neck forward. 

“Lexa?”

“Yes?”

“No offense but I’m going to need you to shut up."

The pout is back in full force and Clarke just can’t resist this girl any longer.

When their lips meet at last, Lexa’s mouth yielding so readily beneath her own, happiness pangs through Clarke’s chest, pure and unfiltered. 

More often than not, Lexa’s kisses are demanding; possessive, even. And Clarke loves that, more so than she ever imagined she would.

Because she _thought_ she was kind of dominant in bed until Lexa came along and pinned her against, first, the conference room wall at the office, then the bathroom door at Lexa’s loft, then against the mattress at the hotel Lexa was staying at while the renovations were being done, then—

Suffice to say, there’s been a _lot_ of pinning in the last three months. 

Despite all that, she thinks she loves it best when Lexa is like this: pliant and unguarded and so responsive to her every touch. A gorgeous, whimpering mess of halting breaths and wordless pleas and desperate, grasping hands. Letting go completely only for Clarke, the vulnerability all the more precious for its rarity.

And now, as Lexa opens her mouth to the swipe of Clarke’s tongue, as she parts her legs and Clarke pushes aside the flimsy scrap of lace to run her fingers lower into slick heat, she feels drunk on the power of being responsible for the fulfilment of Lexa’s pleasure. 

Any ideas she’d entertained about petty retaliation, about drawing it out and making Lexa beg for her touch swiftly fly out the window. As soon as her fingers slide inside, two in a single push, she’s lost.

  
  


***

  
  


Basking in the lazy aftermath, Lexa wraps Clarke up in her arms. Presses warm lips to her nape, the top of her spine and along her shoulders. Scatters kisses over every inch of skin within reach.

Clarke melts into it.

As much as the hot, frantic reunion sex fuels her fantasies while Lexa is away, this is what she misses most. Naked spooning and languid kisses that gradually become more purposeful as Lexa’s hands wander over Clarke’s body.

It’s the part that makes her heart squeeze.

The thing that makes her think they could possibly go the distance.

And Raven and Octavia can call her a damn pillow princess all they like if it means Clarke gets to have this.

  
  


***

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Headcanons, manips and other miscellaneous Model!AU related stuff on my [tumblr](https://femininenachos.tumblr.com/tagged/model%21au/).


End file.
